I usually write something poetic and slightly abstract about Aaron Esh’s collections. But this time, it felt right to write from the heart—because this feels like a collection from the heart. Fashion now often feels impersonal, which is ironic given how much we discuss personal style. 

This collection feels instinctive, sincere. There’s an obsessive precision to it—a craftsmanship people rarely credit to London designers, as though they’re meant only to be eccentric and madcap, all kitchen-sink chaos. This is different. It carries a quiet sense of focus and intention, despite the soundtrack's volume. At the fittings, I noticed something: the models looked like they owned the clothes, as if they’d walked in wearing them. That, I think, is a very London thing.

Londoners know how to wear clothes. I know, because I am one. So is Aaron. Every day here, you see someone dressed impeccably, as if born to wear that outfit in that very moment. You can’t learn it; it’s an attitude, an energy. It’s centuries of tradition—school uniforms, regimented dress codes—colliding with waves of immigrants, subcultures, and the irreverence to both revere and rebel against it. Parisians like to think they’re chic, but mostly they imitate Londoners—with better handbags and nicer perfume—but ultimately, they’re conformists. In London, you can be anything. No one blinks. The other day, I took the tube in hot pants and stilettos at 9 am and felt invisible.

Strange, given the country itself feels gripped by an identity crisis. The streets are alive with protests, young people are disillusioned, and the nation is asking itself: Who am I? What does it mean to be British? No one has time to think about what to wear—or perhaps too much time. Who knows. 

What cuts through the noise here is the collection’s focus on what people actually want to wear. It has seriousness without preciousness. Savile Row tailoring meets East End leathercraft; artisan techniques made attitudinal. Silk-lined pockets piped in satin for the walk to the station. A shrunken trench in slinky nylon—rain-ready, sharp. A leather-trimmed wrap skirt that flatters every hip, perfect with cigarette-leather trousers and slouchy boots. Bias-cut jersey dresses and skirts—modern, urbane—sidestepping the clichés of silk slips. Harrington jackets in satin. Again, unexpected.

It isn’t minimal in that dead-eyed, oat-latte way—all bouclé sofas and beige cashmere tabards. Nor is it “day-to-night,” that ghastly magazine term for sequins at breakfast. Don’t get me started on gender-fluid and seasonless—it’s 2025. Instead, it’s simple, direct, elevated. Clothes that feel inevitable, like the only choice worth making. The kind you see in old films or photographs—perfectly ordinary yet impossible to find now. No superfluous flourishes. Just impeccable construction, fabrics that will only ripen with age. It feels like an antidote to dressing for the amphitheatre of public perception, which is so much of what fashion is right now.

The tailoring and dressmaking here draw from 1930s couture and Savile Row: seamless tuxedo trousers, satin-piped tracksuits, covered-button military shirts, tailored suede MA-65 field jackets, hand-cut leather paillettes, chiffon feathers hand-shredded like a favourite tee. All in service of something greater than mere technique. Craft for life, not for show. Even the double-breasted tailoring was cut in Highbury, by Charlie Allen, the same tailor who made Aaron’s father’s wedding suit.

Because they take time, the clothes feel considered, not frantic. And God, doesn’t everything feel so frantic right now? Ideas feel redundant the moment the lights come up and the clips hit Instagram. Like putting on too much makeup and knowing you looked better without it, but you’re already late, still not dressed, and need to get from East to Central in fifteen minutes. Nothing really happens between putting on concealer and taking it off at night, but somehow we still expect a miracle. And then sometimes the best things happen accidentally, like hair after a blow-dry, except two days later, when it finally turns into an infection in a few looks right and the reason you got it has passed. That’s life, I guess.

Sometimes, I hate how much I love clothes because it can feel like a curse. Finding the perfect jeans can feel like a Sisyphean task, designed to drive you to insanity. Why don’t more designers offer solutions? Why is it so hard for men to give you what you want?

I think Aaron does. These are foundations to build on, to mix with vintage, which feels truer to the moment anyway. For true Londoners, nothing beats the thrill of thrifting at Portobello on a Friday morning, the crisp air and heart-racing promise of striking gold. It’s so much more fun than queuing up on Bond Street, which somehow never feels as fun as queuing up for a nightclub.

I think of my younger self, desperate to dress older, to prove I had taste, to hide insecurities. Now I see all young people are beautiful, even when they can’t see it themselves. These clothes capture that feeling. They make the young feel grown-up, armoured for the world’s chaos; they make the grown-ups feel young again—without looking desperate. 

These are clothes that make you look like you on a good day; the greatest outfit you’ve already worn. The paradox of polish and imperfection, but not contrived. The outfits you’ll see in old photographs decades from now and smile, knowing you got it right. Future vintage. Present tense. Years from now, you will ask yourself: Where is that nappa leather jacket with the pleated waistband? Of course, you still have it. Perhaps you even still wear it. Maybe your kids have stolen it. God, it was great to be young. How much you didn’t know, how much you thought you did. Too many late nights, so many mistakes. Life was full of change… but some of the clothes were made for sticking around. 

– Osman Ahmed